


Come Back to Me

by mirajanihiggins



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anger, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF John Watson, Blackmail, Bottom John Watson, Broken Sherlock, Eventual Smut, Frotting, Healing Sex, Homeless Network, Irene is unhinged, Johnlock - Freeform, Kidnapping, M/M, Minor Character Death, NOT ADLOCK!, NOT BDSM!, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Penetration, Psychological Trauma, Revenge, Self-empowerment, Top Sherlock, gun threat, non-con bondage/torture, sexual slurs, soft john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2018-04-11 05:59:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4424075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirajanihiggins/pseuds/mirajanihiggins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes and John Watson thought their problems with Irene Adler, "the Woman", were over years ago. However, revenge is a dish that's best served cold...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Dangerous Game of Irene Adler

**Author's Note:**

> This work is the property of mirajanihiggins and no one is allowed to publish it in any other venue or for profit.  
> Do not read if you love the Sherlock/Irene pairing--you will hate this story.

“Mrs. Hudson, have you seen Sherlock? We had an appointment with a client an hour ago and he didn’t show!” John Watson couldn’t hide the concern in his voice or the worried look on his face. 

Mrs. Hudson ambled out of her kitchen, drying a pot with a dishtowel. “Oh, John, dear, you know how Sherlock can be sometimes. So forgetful!” 

John sighed in frustration. “Yes, I know, but he _knew_ how important this is. How could he have missed it? I even watched him as he programmed his phone alarm!” He took the stairs two at a time, calling Sherlock’s name the whole way. No response. When he burst into the flat, there was nothing to indicate that Sherlock had been there at all that morning. 

Rather than engaging in a fruitless search for a non-existent note, John immediately headed for his laptop without even stopping to take off his jacket. He briefly checked his email for any messages from Sherlock but found none. His phone had also been suspiciously silent today; when the two of them were in different parts of the city, Sherlock was usually blowing up John’s phone with a steady stream of texts. Sherlock definitely would have sent him a text message if he had gotten hung up somewhere. 

John pursed his lips in consideration before activating a secret program he hadn’t even told Sherlock about. Mycroft had installed a special GPS program on Sherlock’s phone, one used exclusively by MI6. Mycroft had graciously given John the tracking software, as if he knew that John would have to use it at some point to track his brother down. _Good old Mycroft_ , John thought. _Smug bastard_. 

John was not a great typist, so it was fortunate that the GPS tracker program had a user-friendly interface that allowed him to set the system in motion with a minimum of fuss. When the ping was finally triangulated to a location, John had expected to see that Sherlock was at St. Bart’s or NSY. Instead, the phone pinged off a tower located near a string of bars known for their seediness and penchant for creating corpses. John swore softly as he got up to check the coat rack behind the door. No, the belstaff was definitely gone, so Sherlock couldn’t possibly be in disguise as a drug addict or derelict, two of his favorite costumes for undercover work. The coat was far too posh and unmistakable to wear on _that_ kind of assignment. 

John whipped out his phone and put in a call to Billy Wiggins. He knew that Billy had a burn phone especially provided by Sherlock for Homeless Network jobs and that Billy was his point of contact. 

>Click< “’Ello, Mistah ‘Olmes. Wot kin I do fur you?” Came a familiar voice and accent. 

“Billy, this is Dr. John Watson…” 

“Oh, yeah, Shezza’s friend. I remembah you. You sprained me ahm that tyme at the drug‘ouse, but no ‘ard feelin’s. So, wot’s up? Why ya callin’ this phone?” 

John took in a deep breath to steady himself and said, “Billy, Sherlock’s gone missing. His phone is not in his possession, I’m sure of that. He missed a very important appointment and he’s not undercover. Could you mobilize the network and see if you can find out where he is or, at the very least, who has his phone? Then we can question him and find out where Sherlock is.” He proceeded to give Billy an address where he should start his investigation. 

“Got it, Doc. I’ll get on it rite away. Call ya if I find ennythin’” >click< The line went dead. John knew that Billy would get the homeless network galvanized into action. They respected Sherlock, even if they weren’t necessarily fond of his some of his mannerisms, and they knew that he always tried to help them. 

He nervously licked his lips as he pondered his next move. John was a man of action and just hanging around the flat while others did the necessary leg work was abhorrent to his nature. Before he could give it a second thought, he was down the stairs and out the front door, ready to hail a cab, when his mobile rang. It was Billy. 

“’Ello, doc? Itz Wiggins. I ‘eard from sum a’ th’ network that they seen Mistah ‘Olmes bein’ bundled inta a black cah wivout enny plates. Two big guys. One uv tha spottah’s reconnized one a‘ th’ blokes. Name’s Whitey James, a real piece a’ work, that one. Known muscle fur hire. Lives ‘round th’ area where th’ phone last pinged. We’re lookin’ fur ‘im now in th’ pubs that ‘e normally ‘angs out in.” 

“Good news, Billy. Keep me informed.” >click<

John hailed a cab and gave the cabbie address. Finally, at least he had a direction to go in. Something nasty was chewing at his gut and he wasn’t feeling too good about it. 

>>>***<<<

Sherlock tried to open his eyes but couldn’t. His eyelids felt like they weighed 10 stone. Besides that, he could feel that something had been wrapped around his eyes rather tightly. There were also traces of a sweet smell that he couldn’t quite place yet due to a pounding headache that was blurring his reasoning processes. He was way too groggy to remember what had happened precisely and Sherlock was, if anything, precise. There were too many things he didn’t know and he _hated_ that. “It’s my job to know everything, to _notice_ everything,” he would say imperiously whenever some fool at NSY would question his deductions. No, he could not afford the handicap of not knowing exactly where he was and what was going on. 

He tried to shift his limbs to assess his physical status but they, too, seemed to be tightly bound. Also, judging from the gentle movement of warm air on his skin, he was obviously quite naked. Not that Sherlock ever really cared about things like that—he viewed his body as transport, nothing more, and the fact that he was lean, long-limbed, and agile meant that he could move faster and with more precision than most people, something he could do naked _or_ clothed. No, his state of dress was never a concern to him, but his obvious state of bondage was. What “criminal mastermind” would actually bother disrobing him before interrogating or killing him? 

Initially upon awakening, he had wondered if he had been in an accident and was possibly in hospital, but it seemed rather obvious now that this was not the case. There were no hospital sounds around him and the bed upon which he lay was far too comfortable. These sheets must be _at least_ 600 thread count, indicative of one of the finer hotels in the city. That meant that the person responsible for his abduction was someone who was used to the finer things in life. That narrowed the eligibility pool down even further. 

As his head began to clear, he realized that the scent still clinging to his nostrils was chloroform, a very old but reliable method for knocking out one’s victim and rendering him pliable. Much less high-class than, say, Magnussen (who was dead, thank God, and whose execution at _his_ hands had reaped zero consequences, thanks to some timely intervention), who would have used medical sedatives for abduction, or Moriarty, who probably would have just had an assassin put a bullet in his head for convenience’s sake. No, this was clumsy, an obvious hired hand, used by someone who normally didn’t bother with such banal means of getting someone to come into his, or her, web. 

A sudden waft of scented air indicated that someone had silently entered the room. A whiff of leather, the scent of expensive cosmetics, and a touch of…ah, yes, Chopard’s Casmir. Now he knew the score. He knew exactly who had kidnapped him. 

“Good day, Miss Adler. I trust you’ve been doing well?” he asked blithely. 

He heard a throaty chuckle as she approached. “Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Well, well, whatever are you doing in my bed?” she inquired, all innocence. 

Sherlock smiled mirthlessly. “You would know better than I, Miss Adler, as it is you whom I have to thank for my present situation and condition.” 

“Why, Mr. Holmes. I have no reason for your presence here. Whatever could you mean?” Her voice sounded shocked but Sherlock knew it was feigned. As she walked closer he could hear the creak of her leather boots and the light slapping sound of a riding crop, Irene’s favorite instrument for conducting her “therapeutic scolding” sessions. 

“I am in no need of your services, so I don’t quite understand why I’m here, let alone why I am rather expertly,” he yanked at his bindings in demonstration, “trussed up and _en dishabille_.” He canted his head in curiosity. “Would you care to elaborate?” 

“Ooh, _en francais_.” He could almost hear her sardonic smile as she stood beside the bed. “Not at the present time, my dear Sherlock. Let’s just say it’s in someone’s best interests that you be here and leave it at that.” He felt her gently apply the riding crop to his clavicle and then proceed to drag it down the length of his body, stopping just short of his groin. “My, my…where some people dress up nicely, I must say that you… _undress_ very nicely. If I’d known that I had this to look forward to, I would have pressed my luck further,” she purred. 

Sherlock snorted indelicately. “Please. If you know anything about me it’s that I’m not interested in the so-called ‘fairer sex.’ My interests lie rather closer to home.” He shifted his weight on the bed, trying to awaken his now-dozing limbs. This action was met with appreciative sounds from his hostess. “Mmmm, very nice. I’m sure Doctor Watson is quite pleased with himself for landing a catch like you.” Her words were honeyed but with a hard undertone to them. Sherlock guessed that she still held a grudge for both her previous rejection and her ultimate defeat at his hands previously. 

“So what now?” he queried, his voice carefully neutral. “You wouldn’t have gone to all this trouble just to hand me over to someone else for payment. You have a personal agenda, don’t you? Let’s see, now--why would you want me in your bed, naked and trussed, if you, yourself, Miss Adler are as gay as I am and would reap no reward on that front? In fact, why kidnap me at all? It gains you nothing unless… unless you are planning on returning to your former way of life and are trying to re-establish your database of clientele with guilty secrets for insurance. In which case,” he continued, lifting his head and tracking her pacing with his face, “you have wasted your time with me. I don’t care what happens to my so-called reputation in the press or the public. If Janine wasn’t able to tar and feather me in the papers, what makes you think you can?” 

He could hear her approach the bed again, only this time the honey was gone from her voice and the steel was plainly audible. “Tsk, tsk, Sherlock. You’re not the only Holmes in the world, you know. There are other ones who could be embarrassed by your flagrant disregard for social convention, and once I am done with you, your entire family could be easily pressured into giving in to my _requests_. You see, you are only the key to the lock. It’s what’s inside, what that lock is _protecting_ , that I’m interested in.” This time, the riding crop came down with a crack across Sherlock’s unprotected cock, causing him to rear up and cry out in pain and surprise. “Just wait ‘til they see the video. Oh, my…their little Sherlock, all grown up and _such_ a dirty boy…” 

Unable to answer her through pain-gritted teeth, he could only wonder what else she might have in store for him. This wasn’t just about blackmail; this was also about evening the score. 

>>>***<<<

“Billy!” John hissed, motioning for him to come over. Wiggins looked both ways before crossing the alleyway, making sure he had not been observed. He looked as disheveled as usual but smelled significantly better than most of his colleagues in the network. “What news do you have?” 

Wiggins shifted from foot to foot nervously. “Well, Doc, we done found ‘im, all rite, ‘e’s in th’ pub on th’ cornah, sittin’ in a windah seat.” He stole a peek toward the building in question, then gave John a warning eye. “Ya bettah be careful, Doc, ‘e’s a mean one, ‘e is. An’ we don’t know if’n ‘e’s got enny friends wiv ‘im.” 

John nodded. “And that, my dear Wiggins, is why we’re going to try to lure him out here and get the drop on him.” He reached around the back of his waistband and pulled out his Sig for emphasis. “No way we’re going to let this bastard get away with doing anything to Sherlock. If he’s got his phone, then something bad is already in progress, because Sherlock would rather die than part with that phone.” 

Wiggins nodded. “I ‘ears ya, Doc. Lemme take care a’ this.” And, with that, Wiggins slid away through the empty, foul-smelling alleyway, a homeless General marshalling his equally footloose troops in a campaign to liberate a captive or injured ally. John just hoped they would be in time. 

A few minutes passed. There was no sign of Wiggins or his fellows. John began to despair that they had abandoned him—and Sherlock—when a shout went up on the main street. A young blonde girl was running for all she was worth, followed in short order by one of the most intimidating guttersnipes John had ever seen. The young woman didn’t have to feign being frightened—she was terrified of what might happen to her if this hulking bastard ever got his hands on her. She ran past the place where John was hidden and he readied himself to pounce, to try to take this guy down by himself when, suddenly, a group of shabby but determined men ran out of a doorway and surrounded the pursuer. He stopped, angry and confused, and bellowed for them to get out of the way. 

“That little tart stole me wallet!” he yelled, then regaled them with tales of what he was going to do to her when he caught her. His words amounted to nothing, however, when another, even larger man came up behind him and clocked him over the head with a metal pipe. The pipe emitted a melodious sound as it impacted the guy’s skull, sending him to the cobblestones below. 

Seemingly out of nowhere, Wiggins appeared at John’s elbow. “See? I tolja we’d catch this bugger fur ya!” he beamed. “Now we just gotta get th’ information outa him.” He trotted over to the unconscious hulk on the ground, where he and the big man with the pipe trussed him up like a Christmas goose before he could awaken. Then one of the homeless men threw a large cup of water on his head. Another one slapped him in the face a few times—not because he needed to, but because he was enjoying it. Seems that this guy was extremely unpopular among the homeless, according to Wiggins; he was a bully who would shake down anyone who was unfortunate enough to cross his path when he was in “one of those moods”. 

The bruiser stirred and sat up, taking in his surroundings. One of the men in the ring stepped in to rifle his pockets, disregarding his noisy protests. In one of his pants pockets he found Sherlock’s phone, which John had had engraved for him after they had started dating as a gift. Sherlock never let it out of his sight after that. The man wordlessly handed it to Wiggins with a kind of reverence, and Wiggins passed it on to John. 

“’Ey! ‘Ey, that’s mine! Give it back!” the bully blustered. Another one of the men stepped in to kick him soundly in the arse and told him to “shut it”. 

John eyed Sherlock’s abductor coldly. “No. No, it isn’t. Actually, it belongs to a friend of mine, a Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I’m sure you’re familiar with him, aren’t you, Whitey?” 

Whitey frowned, trying to look innocent and failing spectacularly. “Naw, I don’t know nobody by that name _,”_ he retorted. “ _Sherlock ‘Olmes_ , eh? Wot a poncy name. Sounds like a flamer ta me! Prob’ly takes it up th’ arse _and_ sucks it!” He laughed at his crude joke while the shabbily-dressed men standing around him looked like they would very much like to mess him up badly for insulting their sometimes-benefactor. John held up his hand, staying their retribution until he could get some answers. 

John walked over and knelt down before him. He smiled dangerously into Whitey’s face and said, coolly, “Now, my friends here don’t like you and I’m beginning to see why. So, unless you would like them to teach you some long-overdue lessons on manners, I would suggest you start talking. Where did you take Sherlock Holmes?” 

Whitey just stared at John with a poorly-disguised sneer on his face. “You mean that skinny scarecrow in th’ long coat? Wuzzat ‘Sherlock ‘Olmes?’ Ai wuzzn’t given no name, just a place ta pick ‘im up an’ bring ‘im in, me an’ my bud. Got paid real good for it, too.” Suddenly his face clouded over as he remembered, “But that little ‘ore took me wallet! I’ll skin her alive when I get me ‘ands on ‘er!” 

“Calm down, you’re not impressing anyone,” John said, tired of the brute’s futile posturing. “I haven’t got time for this. You will tell me, right now, where you have taken my friend and who paid you to abduct him.” 

Whitey smiled a most unpleasant smile just before he spat a big wad of phlegm straight into John’s face. “I ain’t tellin’ ya nothin’, ya twerp.” He eyed John up and down as John wiped the spit from his face. “Look at ya, yer dick’s prob’ly no bigger than me little finger! Bet yer boyfriend don’t get much fun outa you! It’d be like getting’ fucked by a pencil!” He roared his laughter at his own puerile humor as the homeless network started to converge on him. 

Once again, John held up his hand, indicating he would handle the situation. His smile had gone from menacing to deadly. Even some of his supporters fell back when they saw it. Most just smiled and nodded. They had heard of this little hedgehog’s ability to deal with people like Whitey and they were glad to have a front row seat. 

John, almost casually, pulled his Sig Sauer from the waistband of his pants and examined it, right in front of Whitey’s face. The laughter died in his throat when he saw the weapon, all clean and shiny and obviously well-cared-for. John ejected the magazine, checking that it was full, before slamming it back home into the handle. 

“You know, when I was in the army in Afghanistan, I was told that you should never worry about the bullet that had your name on it. Rather, you should worry about the one addressed ‘To Whom It May Concern’,” John said as he clicked off the safety with emphasis, turning the gun toward Whitey’s face. “Do you know how many ‘Anonymous’ bullets I have in this gun?” Whitey shook his head, never taking his eyes off the pistol’s muzzle. John may have been acting like he was calm, but it was a thin veneer. He smiled cheerfully but his eyes promised mayhem. “More than enough to obliterate that ugly face of yours. They’ll have to use DNA to identify your pathetic corpse because one of the first things I’m going to blow out is your teeth.” He demonstrated by pointing his gun at Whitey’s jaw from the side and making a “pow” sound with his lips. “Then, if that doesn’t do the trick, I’ll do the other side.” He switched the gun to the other side and repeated the performance. 

Whitey’s complexion was beginning to resemble his name. John continued, still smiling. “And then,” he moved the gun to the side of Whitey’s cheek, pointing inward, “I’ll blow off your nose and sinuses, maybe your eyes, too. I’m not sure. I might save those for later.” John took a moment to lay a hand companionably on Whitey’s shoulder before continuing. “And you know what the best part of it is? You’ll still be alive while I’m doing it. You see, in Afghanistan, I saw _lots_ of people with their faces blown off. As long as the brain isn’t compromised and the blood vessels in the neck are intact, you’ll get to enjoy it all.” Then John leaned in close to his victim before whispering, “And so will I. And no one here will lift a finger to help you.” 

About this time, Whitey was starting to figure out that maybe this madman in front of him with the big shiny gun and the deadly smile was actually serious. 

“Now, tell me where my friend is and who helped you, Whitey, and I’ll let you live. Last offer. After this, you start losing body parts.” 

Sweat was dripping from Whitey’s face. “You can’t do that. Bobbies’ll hear you. They’ll come runnin’” 

John turned around to face the homeless network. “Do any of you know of a nice, private place where I can blow this wanker’s face off without interruption?”

One short brunet man with a battered fedora and a smirk a mile wide stepped forward. “Sure do, guv. And we’ll all be there to make sure nobody bovvers you. ‘ell, if we ‘ad more time, we’d sell tickets!” 

“All right, then. Gents,” John addressed the men as he rose to his feet and started holstering his gun in his pants once again. “Will everyone please take a limb and we’ll carry this buggerer…” 

“No! No! ‘elp! Somebody…” Whitey yelled before he was knocked over the head yet again with the pipe. He whimpered like a beaten puppy but had stopped yelling for assistance. The next time he looked up at John, the Sig was ready to have a serious conversation with him. 

Finally, Whitey seemed to see the light. 

“OK, I’ll tell ya. Just don’t shoot me, K?” 

John knelt down in front of him again. “Where and who. _NOW_ ,” he said, in his best Captain Watson voice. 

“The Savoy. Took ‘im in th’ back way, all the way up ta th’ pent’ouse. We was paid by a tall lady. Dark ‘air, real pretty. Smelled good, too. Paid us in cash.” 

“Now, wasn’t that easier than a Sig Sauer facial? Good boy,” John said as he clapped his hand on the thug’s shoulder and got up. As he started walking away, Wiggins caught up with him. 

“Wait a second, Doc. Wot do we do wiv the bastard?” He jerked his head back toward where Whitey sat, still surrounded by the homeless mob. 

John thought a moment, then said, “Whatever you like, Billy. Frankly, I don’t care what you do ‘cause I won’t be here. Then call Lieutenant Lestrade—anonymously, of course--to pick up what’s left. Mention the kidnapping and get the name of his pal. It’s all going to hit the fan anyway when I get a hold of that bitch.” 

Wiggins raised his eyebrows inquiringly. “Which bitch, doc?” 

A fleeting, hard smile crossed his lips. “The Woman.”

 


	2. A Dish Best Served Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While John's out trying to find Sherlock, he's left to face Irene's wrath, alone and defenseless. Surviving may not be the least of his troubles.

The riding crop came down again, this time harder. Sherlock’s back arched in agony but he refused to scream. That’s what she wanted, to hear him scream, to make him beg for mercy—twice. But, apart from that first strike to his genitals, Sherlock had refused to cooperate.

His chest, abdomen, and the front of his thighs displayed an interlacing of long, thin welts, criss-crossing like the lid of a cherry pie. Sherlock’s teeth ached from the non-stop clenching to keep himself from screaming. He would _not_ accommodate her. He would _not_ yield. Not even when she gave him a script to read for the camera, telling him that, if he read it, she would stop. He didn’t care what the script said, even though the text was debasing and vile to his sensibilities. He just wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of giving in. 

“So stubborn,” she purred as she leaned over his body and viciously slapped him across the face. “You know, those cheekbones were made for slapping. Maybe I should indulge myself a little. After all, all work and no play…” 

“Makes Miss Adler a dull, boring, pathetic little excuse for a human being,” Sherlock finished for her through a haze of pain. He was rewarded by another slap across the face. 

“Naughty, naughty, Sherlock. Don’t you know you’re not supposed to talk back? I guess I’ll have to punish you some more.” He heard her strut down the length of his body until she reached what he estimated to be his groin area. “Oh, look—another playground for me, and it looks so forlorn, so forgotten.” He felt her riding crop touch the head of his cock, rubbing it gently but firmly with the leather paddle at the end. He could feel it began to respond slightly. 

_Think of something else, think of ANYTHING else, multiplication tables, quantum physics, next week’s to-do list…Oh, God…_ as he felt her satin-clad hands begin to caress him, seduce him with long, firm strokes to the shaft and silky circular patterns and hot breath to the head and.. _No, don’t submit, don’t yield, oh God, John, where are you? Only John, not this bitch, never this bitch, only John…_

Despite his struggle to control himself, his own body began to betray him. Soon he was as erect as he had ever been with John; as swollen, as sensitive… 

_SMACK_! The riding crop connected and this time Sherlock did scream—it was wrenched from his soul by the sudden onslaught of blows against his rigid cock. It didn’t take long for it to flag but not before Irene had gotten off a few good whacks to it. Sherlock lay there gasping, sobbing in indescribable pain, involuntarily-shed tears soaking through the blindfold. 

Through the agony he could hear Irene’s voice next to his ear, dripping with hate. “You destroyed my life, Sherlock, you and that filthy brother of yours. I had everything—a thriving business, a beautiful home, wealth, influence--and you took it all away with one keystroke! You just had to win, didn’t you? You just had to prove how _clever_ you were. And then, my God, you had the temerity to choose that pint-sized, needle-dicked doctor over _me_. I’m insulted, Sherlock. I’m insulted, and I’m angry. I’m going to get it all back and you’re going to help me. This video is just a start. It’s going to hurt your brother, your parents, and your limp-cocked lover every bit as much as it hurt you. And they’ll pay to suppress it, believe me.” She laughed softly and leaned in to kiss his ear in a mockery of intimacy. “And, as for you, well, you’ll never think of having sex in the same way again. Once you’re of no further use to your good doctor, do you really think he’ll stick around?” She laughed harshly. 

He heard her walk toward where he assumed she had set up the camera. “Don’t think I’m done with you yet, Sherlock. There are just so-o-o many other things I’ve been wanting to do to you and they should all be immortalized on video, don’t you think?” her voice drifted back. “Hmm, plenty of memory left. You know, I shouldn’t be greedy. I should space this out, make it last. When I’m done with you, Sherlock, you will know what it feels like to be beaten. Oh, not like last time—that was just a taste. You’ve just had the appetizer. Dinner will be much more filling.” 

He sucked in a steadying breath. “I saved your worthless arse in Karachi, only to have you betray me and leave me naked in the desert! That wasn’t sufficient revenge for you? I should have let them execute you, you ungrateful bitch!” 

“Mmm, temper, temper, Sherlock! Of course it wasn’t enough! If Moriarty hadn’t blown his brains out on that rooftop, I would have been ‘skinned and turned into shoes’, as he had promised! As it was, I barely got out before his thugs found me. My poor Kate—she didn’t fare quite as well, I’m afraid. So, you see, this isn’t just for _my_ benefit, I assure you. I promised Kate that I would make you pay, and I will. Oh, will I!” Her laughter followed her out of the room. 

_God, no, please. Please, help me. She’s insane--blames me for her own greed and downfall. Oh, my sweet God, where is John? He knows I missed the meeting, he MUST know I missed it, he should be searching for me, I KNOW he’s searching for me, please, John, find me, I need you, I love you, my John, please take me home, help me…  
_

Sherlock tried once again to insinuate his hands out of the bonds securing him to the headboard. He was tightly bound to the bed frame, spread-eagled. It was to no avail. He couldn’t feel his arms any more-- the way they were cinched up over his head had cut off the circulation and frozen his joints. His body was one giant mass of pain, the welts raised and painful, his cock aching, throbbing in time with his heartbeat. 

The sound of a toilet flushing. This time she didn’t even try to conceal her entrance into the room from him. She walked with the confidence of a lioness stalking her prey. He felt a gloved hand touch his chest high up, trailing light fingers down his body, stopping only to trace the marks she had left on him. “What a pity to mar such a lovely work of art, but you can’t make an omelet without whipping a few eggs,” she laughed, a cackle that made her sound deranged and dangerous. She lightly ran a finger over one of his nipples, squeezing and twisting at the same time until he groaned. “Oh, you are such a soft, sensitive boy, aren’t you?” she mocked him. “I could have given you such pleasure, but, instead, I’ll take _my_ pleasure at your expense!” 

Bracing himself for the next onslaught of blows, Sherlock was surprised to hear what sounded like a battering ram slamming into a wall in the front room. Once. Twice. Thrice. _BAM_! Whatever it was, gave way. 

“Sherlock!” a muffled but familiar voice cried out. “Sherlock! Where are you?” 

“In here!” he shouted back, shocked that he still had any semblance of a voice left. That earned him another slap across the face and an unknown number of blows to the body with the riding crop. “Shut up!” she screamed at him just as the door to the bedroom she occupied was kicked in with one blow. His heart soared when he heard John— _his_ John—yell “Get away from him, bitch, or I’ll blow your fucking head off!” 

“You wouldn’t do that, doctor. That would be an unprovoked attack. After all, look what nearly happened to poor Sherlock when he did it to CAM,” she replied, all exaggerated sweetness and sarcasm. Sherlock could hear her voice moving away from the bed. 

“Oh, don’t tempt me, honey. I’d rather put you in the ground than allow you to… _ACK_! **_Shit_**! 

The sounds of a brief struggle and a dull _thunk_ brought forth a new round of cursing from John. 

“John, don’t let her get away! John!” Sherlock called out, his voice cracking with stress, a tinge of hysteria just noticeable around the edges. “Stop her!” 

“Bye bye, boys. I had _such_ fun today! Maybe we can do it again sometime!” Irene’s maniacal laughter faded away until there was only the sound of John’s rather colorful language. Someone was crawling on the floor toward the bed. 

“John!” Sherlock’s voice was stronger now but full of worry. “What happened? Are you hurt? Please tell me you’re not hurt!” 

“I’m OK, Sherlock. Bitch hit me across the face with her crop, then pistol-whipped me. Got blood in my eyes and one of them’s swollen shut.” John’s voice was right beside the bed. Sherlock could feel his hands groping for him. Short sensitive fingers were touching, appraising, catalogueing his injuries. “Jesus Christ, Sherlock, what did she do to you? I can’t see…” 

Outside there was a faint popping sound, like a car backfiring, except it came in bursts. 

“Hmph. If that’s what, and who, I _think_ it is...” Sherlock heard John mutter with obvious relish. 

“What…what do you mean?” Sherlock was starting to feel shocky. His adrenaline was finally ebbing and a tremor was threatening to engulf his entire body. 

“John? John Watson?” Lestrade’s booming voice was easily heard, even this far into the suite. 

“In here, Greg,” John yelled back. Sherlock could feel a sheet being pulled over his battered body. A light pat of sympathy and support fell on the shoulder. “I’m sorry, Sherlock,” John said as he tried to untie the bindings by touch alone. “I can’t see right now. I’ll untie what I can…” 

“John, what… _Holy Shit_! What the hell happened in here?” Before either man could respond, they heard, “Hello, dispatch, send me an ambulance immediately to the Savoy, Penthouse” 

“John needs medical assistance, too, Lestrade,” said Sherlock through his shivers. 

“John? Look at me…aw, crap, why didn’t you say something? Let me get another ambulance over here…” 

John’s firm voice said, tight with pain, “No, Greg. One ambulance will be fine. I’m going with Sherlock.” 

“But…” 

“ _NO! I’M GOING WITH SHERLOCK. END OF STORY_. Now, tell me what happened downstairs. I heard gunfire. And help me untie Sherlock. God only knows how long he’s been restrained.” 

Lestrade’s voice came over to the bed and the mattress dipped with his weight as he worried at the knots holding Sherlock’s wrists prisoner. John blindly touched Sherlock’s face, then pulled off his blindfold. Sherlock blinked at the brightness of the room, finally having to close his eyes against the glare and just listen to the tale as it was told. 

“Well, Wiggins called ‘anonymously’ about where to pick up Whitey James—by the way, you didn’t have a hand in what happened to him, by any chance, did you?” Silence. “No? I didn’t think so and, no, I don’t want to hear the whole story. While he was at it, he ‘just happened to mention’ that you were coming here to confront the kidnapper and rescue Sherlock. You know, you _really_ should let me in on these things, John. We could have been here long before now,” he said as he managed to untie one set of restraints.

 

“No, no, you couldn’t. It took some… _work_ to get the location, and then I had a cabbie burn rubber to get over here. Broke several traffic laws, I’m sure, but I’m no expert. Cabbie’s _real_ happy with his tip.” 

“Well, I assigned Donovan to take care of Whitey, who, by the way, is singing like a canary and pleading with us to ‘keep that mad bloke away from me.’ Did you actually threaten to kill him, John? _Off_ the record?” Another set of restraints removed. Sherlock grimaced as Lestrade moved his frozen shoulder. 

“Nope. I just talked to him. Didn’t even touch him.” 

“Ok, I’m going to believe that, stupid as it sounds. Damn it, where the hell is that ambulance?” 

Just then, the thin bobbling sound of an ambulance siren became audible, growing louder by the second. “About fucking time,” Lestrade groused. “Sherlock, how are you holding out? You need a blanket?” 

“Y-Y-Yes,” he replied through chattering teeth. 

Now that Sherlock’s legs were unrestrained, Lestrade pulled the down comforter up from the foot of the bed to cover Sherlock’s body, then peered down at him. “Sherlock, will you let me look at your injuries since John can’t see them? 

Sherlock nodded, still shivering. 

Gently, Lestrade pulled the blood-spattered sheets away from his chest, sucking in his breath at the sight of the damage he found beneath. “My God, that woman was psycho! Why would she do this to you?” 

“B-blamed me for…r-ruining her life. Wanted…r-revenge against me,…b-blackmail against my…f-family. There’s a s-script… she w-wanted me to r-read…d-disgusting….” He forced the words out, his voice tremulous. 

Outside the suite, an elevator dinged and a commotion spilled out into the front room of the suite. “Ambulance!” 

“In here!” all three men sang out simultaneously, although Sherlock’s voice had a stutter to it. 

As the paramedics piled into the room and set up their equipment, John found Sherlock’s nearly-numb hand and squeezed it. “Can you feel that?” 

“It’s s-starting to c-come b-back to l-life.” He squeezed back weakly, barely a twitch, and said, softly, “Knew you’d c-come.” 

“Hey, you know me. Never miss a party.” He kissed Sherlock’s hand. “Love you.” 

“L-love you, t-too.” 

>>>***<<<

“I don’t know what’s wrong with him anymore,” John sighed, looking out the large window to his left,

“And I don’t know what to do about it, either.” He kicked the coffee table in front of him. “I just feel so bloody helpless.” 

Ella Thompson, John’s therapist, nodded but said nothing. After a few minutes of silence, John just…exploded. 

“What the hell is the point of all _this_ ,” he waved his hand between the two of them, “if you can’t help me find a way to help my friend? The man I love? The most important person in my fucking life? Why am I even here when I could be home with him? _What, exactly, is the point of you, anyway_?” 

Ella leaned the end of her pen against her lower lip and regarded him thoughtfully. “You’re frustrated.” 

John threw his hands up into the air. “Oh, brilliant! First class! How long did you have to go to uni to figure _that_ out?” 

“John, you’re taking your frustrations out on me because you can’t take them out on Sherlock.” 

“Well, of _course_ I can’t take them out on Sherlock! He’s a bloody wreck, and it wasn’t his fault! That psycho-bitch Irene tortured him half out of his mind and I can’t even take it out on _her_ because she’s fucking _dead_!” John yelled. Ella couldn’t help but notice the way he was sitting—arms and legs crossed like a pretzel, every muscle tight with anguish. 

“Tell me how that happened, John,” Ella said, soothingly. 

John sniffed in anger, his mouth distorted. “Well, before I left the Whitey James take-down, I told Wiggins to anonymously call the police and tell them where to pick up the wanker and why. I told him where I was going, so he included that in the call. Thing is, when Lestrade heard that the call was an anonymous tip about someone kidnapping Sherlock, he got on the line. He knew it was Wiggins right off, so he was able to get more information out of him. He sent Donovan and a team to pick up Whitey, then he and _his_ crew turned up at the Savoy not long after I did.” 

“So how did this Irene end up dead?” 

“When I showed up at the Savoy, after racing halfway across town with an insane cabbie, I went up to the penthouse suite via the freight elevator and basically kicked the door in. When I heard Sherlock’s voice, I kicked in the bedroom doors. Thank God NSY is going to pay for the damage I caused as part of their investigation budget. Anyway, I found Irene beating Sherlock with her riding crop about as hard as she could swing it, so I told her to get away from him. I guess I underestimated her because she was acting all seductive and everything and then she hit me across the face with the bloody crop and nearly took out my eyes. Then, while I was rolling on the floor in pain, she grabbed my gun, pistol-whipped me in the head, and ran out of the room. While I was trying to tend to Sherlock while blinded, I heard shots downstairs. Turns out Irene was confronted by some members of the Special Forces team and was crazy enough to point my pistol at them. They basically blew several good-sized holes in her. Not that I’m sorry.” He shrugged. “Gun didn’t have any ammo in it anyway,” he smirked. 

Ella looked surprised. “You ran out of bullets?” 

John smirked. “Nope. Took ‘em out before I entered the suite. Clip was in my pocket. I knew how dangerous, how _deceptive_ , Irene could be, so I took no chances. Figured that if she somehow managed to get a hold of my gun she’d be rendered harmless. No bullets, no hospital bills.” He chuckled. “Bet she was surprised as hell when she pulled the trigger.” 

“You don’t seem especially upset that you, in essence, caused her death,” Ella observed. 

John shook his head, wrinkling his nose in disdain. “Nope. I’m glad she’s dead. She deserved it after what she did to Sherlock. I mean, she seriously lost it somewhere!” 

“So, what now?” 

“That’s why I’m here. Not for myself, but for him.” Ella raised an eyebrow but said nothing. “Look, I know that he’d never talk to a psychologist. That kind of thing…well, it threatens him. You should have seen him when he thought he was losing his mind on the Baskerville case. Totally freaked him out. His mind is his greatest asset, so any inkling he may have that it’s not sound is a major source of anxiety for him. No,” John pursed his lips in thought, “no, he’d never do it, so I’m doing it for him.” He leaned forward, spreading his hands in appeal. “I know it’s your job to listen and reflect, but I need some serious help here. Please. What can I do to help my friend?” 

Ella sighed. “All right, tell me what’s going on with him. What sort of behaviors is he engaging in?” 

“Well, he’s very moody, sort of like he was when I first met him. Also seems depressed, anxious.” 

“What makes you think that?” 

John pinched the bridge of his nose in thought. “He sleeps a lot, which, in itself, is unusual, and refuses to eat, which isn’t. No interest in anything, not even a new case. He just looks…beaten, if you’ll pardon the phrase. Broken. He locks up when I try to show him any physical affection at all. He’s even stopped cuddling in bed. I mean, it used to be like sleeping with a bloody octopus! Now, he just stays on his own side, all curled up on himself. If I touch him, he jumps like he thinks I’m going to hit him. And then there are the nightmares. They weren’t even this bad when he came back from Serbia after being tortured! Ella, I can’t see him go on like this. It’s like every night is Danger Night any more!” 

Ella closed her eyes, her brow furrowing. John watched, hoping for some sort of panacea but knowing that it was unlikely. 

Finally, she opened her eyes and said, “Sherlock suffered from a form of PTSD caused by a traumatic loss of control. From everything you’ve ever told me, your friend prides himself on his self-control, his ability to control his circumstances or to recover control when it is wrested from him. He has suffered torture before and was able to cope with it because he felt that he still had some modicum of control over his situation. Here, his intellect and talents were of no use to him. He was disempowered, belittled, and abused for the amusement of another. This may have stimulated the return of some deep-seated childhood emotional trauma where he felt helpless and at the mercy of those who would hurt him. There were probably also some flashbacks to his time in Serbia.” 

John nodded, pursing his lips in thought. “Sounds about right. So what can I do to help him recover?” 

“Normally I would suggest ‘the talking cure’, but, in this case, I would recommend something more. Do you think you can get him to talk to you about it? Let him vent his feelings?” 

“Actually, I’ve already tried that. He clams up. Won’t say a word. Just goes to bed and pulls the covers over his head. He’s never been real great about discussing his feelings before, but now he’s positively constipated!” 

Ella pulled at her lower lip as she pondered this last bit of information. Then, “This may sound like an odd question, but please humor me.” 

“OK…” 

“When you and Sherlock have are affectionate or have sex, who is usually the dominant party?” 

John’s head snapped back in surprise. “That’s, uh, kind of personal, isn’t it?” 

She smiled. “Not really. Sometimes we have to find our answers anywhere we can. So, what role does Sherlock occupy during these times? Who initiates; who suggests trying new things?” 

John was blushing at this line of inquiry. “Well, he’s, uh, he’s usually kinda…he’s sort of…I guess you could say I’m the one driving it, usually. You know, especially if it’s, ah…you know.” He circled the fingers of one hand and poked a finger of the other through it in demonstration. 

“Right. Understood. In that case, I would encourage you to engage him emotionally first, physically next, then sexually once he’s more comfortable being touched. Since that was the basis of the attack against him—the stripping away of his control and the perversion of intimacy--let _him_ ‘call the shots,’ as it were. Be as gentle, as loving, as appreciative as possible. Let him build himself back up with your support until he feels strong enough to address the underlying issues with you.” She paused, reflecting. “You know, it speaks very much to Irene’s core delusions that she felt the way to destroy him for rejecting her and her way of life was to sexually abuse and humiliate him. For her, _everything_ was about sex and control, without emotional connection.” She stopped and bestowed an affectionate smile upon John. “However, I don’t think she figured _you_ into the equation. She threatened him that you would leave once he was of no more use to you, not even realizing that you have his back—you always have. You can help him recover by giving him back the control she denied him. Where she tried to break him down, you can help build him back up. She wounded him with hate, so you can heal him with love.” 

John looked askance at Ella. “That sounds like a bad greeting card,” he quipped. 

She smiled. “Maybe so, but you’d be surprised what the application of a little unconditional love and caring can do for emotional trauma. I mean, you told me that he said he knew you’d come for him. That’s a whole lot of trust right there. I think that if anyone can get through to him, it’s you.” 

He scrubbed his hand over his face and sighed. “God, I hope you’re right, Ella. If I can get him to respond to me…God, I just want to see the old Sherlock again, snark and all. _My_ Sherlock, not just some zombie in a robe.” 

Ella rose gracefully and extended your hand. “Well, good luck, John. Keep me informed of your progress.” 

He returned the gesture, clasping her hand with conviction. “I will.”


	3. Slowly But Surely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of 'The Woman's' attack, John tries to find a way to help Sherlock recover and return to being the man he once was...

221B Baker Street was quiet as the grave. Of course, one could always hear the street life outside the drafty windows, but the flat itself used to be bustling with life. There used to be well-palmed newspapers sitting next to freshly-used coffee mugs and crumb-laden dishes, photos and newspaper clippings stuck to the mirror over the fireplace, and the sound of classical violin music. Now there was drab silence. No life stirred within these walls anymore. The life had been extinguished with the light in Sherlock’s eyes.

John didn’t even bother to call out to his friend. He knew there would be no response. He removed his jacket and hung it next to the belstaff greatcoat that hadn’t seen use in weeks. _God, I hope this works. Please, God, let me get through to him. I can’t bear to see him like this._

He wandered into the kitchen and through the short hallway to the bedroom. As he stepped inside and closed the door, he could see the sheet-wrapped figure in the bed, unmoving. That figure was once John’s everything. Hopefully, it would be again someday.

Slipping his shoes off, John undressed and put on loose-fitting pajamas before crawling into bed. It was too early to sleep but he suddenly felt a need to hold this man in his arms and try to chase the demons away from him. He slipped under the comforter and reached out a tentative hand to rest on Sherlock’s back. But before he touched, he whispered, “Sherlock,” so as not to startle him. Still no reply, so he gently touched the scarred back he had gotten to know so well. There was no startle, no shrinking away this time. Instead, the dark-haired head turned almost imperceptibly in acknowledgement of his presence.

“You’re back,” he said in a lifeless voice. “What did the head-shrinker have to say? Did she encourage you to commit me yet?”

John blew a deep breath out his nose. “First off, Sherlock, she’s not a head-shrinker, she’s a psychologist. And, no, she isn’t suggesting any such thing. She’s concerned about you, just as I am.” He spoke softly, trying not to provide any ammunition for Sherlock to lob back at him. “You know as well as I that you’ve changed. Ever since…”

“Yes, I know.” Sherlock’s deep baritone was too soft, stripped of its life. “I’m not who I was, and I don’t know how to get back there. It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s just,” he shrugged, “I can’t seem to find the way, John.”

“She said that you need to re-establish a sense of control again over your life, that Irene stripped that from you with her attack. She wanted you to feel has helpless as she had felt.”

A wan chuckle left Sherlock’s lips. “I guess no good deed goes unpunished, as the old saying goes. I tried to keep her from hurting others but end up being put in the line of fire myself. John,” he reached an arm back and John caught it, interlacing his short fingers with Sherlock’s long, slender ones. His voice was full of pain. “A bullet, a knife wound, being beaten and starved and deprived of sleep—these things I could deal with. What she did to me was—unspeakable.”

“I know,” John said softly, his heart hurting so badly for this man that he loved so dearly. “I’m here, Sherlock. I’m going to help you through this. You don’t have to do it alone.” He scooted behind Sherlock without touching him and kissed the back of his head through his hair. “I love you, you beautiful, otherworldly creature.” He felt his fingers being squeezed in reply.

After some consideration, John asked, “May I put my arms around you?”

Sherlock froze in place. The thought of physical contact was still abhorrent to him after what he had endured. The welts on the front of his body were largely healed, both by time and John’s tender, diligent ministrations, but the memory of the pain and the humiliation were still bright and fresh. He breathed in a steadying breath and released it, then said, shakily, “Yes, of course.”

John slowly and carefully slid his arms around his lover, cradling him like a priceless and fragile piece of art. His hands rested lightly on Sherlock’s chest as his fingers timorously explored the resolving scars where the crop had bitten deeply into soft, pale flesh. He shook his head and whispered, “No, love. There is no ‘of course’ anymore. I will ask if I can do something and you will consent or refuse, and either way it will be fine with me” His voice was gentle and filled with affection.

Sherlock snorted delicately. “Is this what your therapist suggested? How very ‘new age’”

John chuckled at his tone. “Now, that’s more like the Snarkmaster that I know and love. God, I’ve missed you.” He squeezed ever-so-gently. “Oops, sorry, love. Should have asked first. You let me know if I’m hurting you, alright?”

“John, I’m not a child and I’m not made of glass,” came the caustic retort. “Please don’t insult me by treating me as such.”

Sherlock felt the vibration of John’s suppressed laughter through his back, also covered in scars but long since healed. “What?” he snapped.

“God, you can be such a fucking arsehole sometimes.” John was laughing loud now. “Sherlock, if it were up to me, I’d drag you out of this bed, make you get dressed, and call Lestrade to let him know you’re available again. Before that, however, I’d fuck the living shit out of you.”

John felt Sherlock place one of his large hands over both of John’s smaller ones where they lay upon his chest. “I’m sorry, John. I forget sometimes how hard this must be for you, too. Irene didn’t just torture me, she…” His deep voice quavered, breaking at the edges, “She damaged something inside me that I haven’t been able to piece back together yet. My mind just spirals down into this dark place where she’s waiting…waiting for me to come back…” John felt Sherlock’s body tremble and he held him close, his cheek pressed into the scarred back. “I feel… immobilized by doubt and fear. The things she said, John,” a shiver ran through his entirety, “were almost worse than the blows she administered. They were vile, meant to maim and destroy whatever was inside your mind and heart. She used the riding crop as punctuation.” He breathed deeply, trying to regain control. “She certainly knew her business.”

“Fucking harpy,” John muttered. “I should have shot her myself. Could have called it ‘defense of another.’ I’m reasonably sure I could have gotten away with it, too. Lestrade would have played along.”

Sherlock squeezed his hands and smiled weakly. “My hero,” he said, sans mockery. “I knew you would come. When I missed the meeting, I knew you would put the pieces together and come looking.” He grasped one of John’s hands and pressed it to his lips. John closed his eyes and savored the touch, something he hadn’t felt for far too long.

“That’s why we’re a team, love,” John said, in his sincerest manner. “We look after each other. I’m just sorry it took so long for me to find you.” He quietly cursed everyone and everything that had cost him time that day. “I was ready to use the Sig to rearrange Whitey James’ face that day, one sector at a time, if he wouldn’t tell me where you were. We were all ready to take him to a nice, isolated part of town for just that reason when he finally cracked.”

There was a touch of amusement to Sherlock’s voice when he said, “Yes, so I heard. I got the full story from Billy after the fact. He said you went from ‘Doctor Watson’ to full-on ‘Captain ‘I’m-going-to-blow-your-face-off’ Watson’ in record time. He said it was breathtaking to behold.” He smirked. “Wish I could have seen it. You know how I love your ‘Captain Watson’ voice.”

“Well, you’re not going to be hearing it much in the near future. In fact, it’s the last thing you need.” He kissed Sherlock’s back between the shoulder blades and felt a shiver—of pleasure, he hoped. “However, I’ve been thinking that, maybe, we can start easing back into our normal sex life at some point.”

A deep, throaty chuckle. “There are some who would say there’s _nothing_ normal about our sex life.”

John felt a bit of heat rising up in his chest and throat. “ _Fuck ‘em_. Fuck ‘em _all_. What the hell do they know about what people in love do?”

Another chuckle and a pat on the hand. “Down, tiger. I was trying to make a joke, poor as it was.”

John sighed. “Well, it’s a start, at least.” He paused, then, “May I cuddle?”

“Yes, John. I’d like that.”

John snuggled closer, molding himself to Sherlock’s back, hips, and thighs. “God, you feel so good, it’s like I can’t get enough of you.”

“I’m sorry, John.” Quietly and with remorse.

“No. Don’t apologize. This is _not_ your fault. It was _never_ your fault. You did everything right, but sometimes bad things happen, even to the best of people. _No one_ suspected she was capable of _this_.” John closed his eyes and rubbed his cheek against the whip-marked skin. “I’m going to take care of you, Sherlock. You and me against the world, remember?”

“I remember.”

They stayed like that, pressed together as though one body, for a long, long time.

>>>***<<<

A few weeks passed.

“’Morning, Sunshine,” John quipped as Sherlock shuffled out of the bedroom, wrapped in a sheet and looking like something the cat had not only dragged in but had played with, eaten, and regurgitated. He received a venomous look in return.

“I hate it when you say that, you know,” he grumbled, walking past John’s chair.

“OK, then. ‘Morning, Toxic Waste,” John replied, smirking.

Sherlock smiled as he plopped into his own chair. “Much better. Or, at least, more appropriate.”

“Tea?”

“Yes, please.”

John heaved himself out of his all-too-comfy chair and headed toward the kitchen. “So how did you sleep last night?” he asked as he set the kettle on the stovetop and turned up the gas. “I was so exhausted I just conked out.”

“Yes, I noticed. I took full advantage of you. Your pregnancy test should be positive any day now,”   Sherlock deadpanned.

John snorted laughter and Sherlock favored him with a smile that looked almost normal. “I love your laugh,” Sherlock observed. “It…makes things seem better. More like the way life used to be.”

“I think we’re getting there,” John agreed as he walked two mugs of tea out to the living room and handed one to his friend. He reclaimed his own seat, took a sip of tea, and made a face. “I think the milk’s going bad. I’ll have to go buy some more. Want to come?”

Sherlock’s eyes dropped as he sipped his tea. “No, I’m not sure I’m ready for that yet. I still feel very… vulnerable. Like all my armor has been stripped away.”

“Well, you _are_ sitting there in just a sheet, Sir Mopes-a-lot, so it’s not real surprising.”

A smile quirked at one edge of Sherlock’s full lips. “Did you know that Moriarty called me ‘Sir Boast-a-lot’?”

John’s grin dropped away, his expression turning to dismay. “Jesus, Sherlock, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”

“No, of course you didn’t,” he agreed with a sad smile before turning his attention back to his tea.

After a few minutes of heavy silence and tea-sipping, John cleared his throat and asked blandly, “Is there anything I can bring back for you?”

Looking at John over the top of his mug, Sherlock smiled in a self-deprecating manner. “My self-esteem would be nice.”

John snorted tea through his nose laughing.

>>>***<<<

Another month later...

 _God, I hate this_ , John thought as he lugged several bags worth of groceries up a flight of stairs and into the kitchen proper. No point asking Sherlock for help—he always deemed John the “muscle” of their team, so he rarely engaged in any physical tasks around the flat while John was in residence.

He looked in the living room for Sherlock but the place was empty, so he bent to the task of putting away the groceries. _Let’s see…milk, eggs, cheese, yoghurt (not raspberry—Sherlock hates the seeds in his teeth), bread…_

“John! Back already?” came a light baritone voice from the bedroom.

John rage-sniffed in annoyance and responded, “Didn’t think you’d notice I was gone. You could have helped me with the groceries, you know.”

“Now, how can I do that if I didn’t know you were back? You usually call for me.”

“Yes, and you usually ignore me, so what’s the point?” John groused, closing the refrigerator door with a purposeful _thunk_.

“Stop complaining and come in here when you’re done,” Sherlock replied in a long-suffering voice.

“Hmph,” John mumbled. “Yessir, Captain Bossypants.”

“I heard that.”

John finished putting away the non-perishables and stowing the bags before turning his attention to what was going on in the bedroom. Inside, he found Sherlock sitting cross-legged in bed, still in pajamas, bent over his phone in rapt attention. He glanced up as John entered the room and motioned him over with one hand. “Look at this—Lestrade just texted me about a new case. He doesn’t have all the details just yet but some facets of the case appear to be unique…” Sherlock looked up into John’s face with a smile bright enough to read by. “He’s going to send over the case file as soon as the forensic work is in. I…John, are you all right?”

_Oh. My. God. I haven’t seen him this animated in months. And how I’ve missed that smile! He’s coming back to me, dear God, he’s coming back…_

He leaned in and kissed Sherlock on the forehead. “It’s nothing, sweetheart. I’m just happy to see _you_ happy. Oh, _shit_ , I forgot to ask…”

The smile dimmed a little. “You really don’t have to ask anymore, John. I know you worry but I’m doing much better, I really am.”

John shook his head, pursing his lips. “No. Not yet. You’re still too jumpy, love. I’d rather err on the side of caution than cause a set-back because, you know what? You _are_ doing better, and I wouldn’t endanger that for the world.”

Another kiss, this time _with_ _permission_ , on top of the head, and John breezed out into the kitchen, feeling better than he had in a long time. There was still a way to go—they still weren’t having sex, but the temporary relinquishment of John’s control over other areas of their relationship had made a world of difference in Sherlock.

“Tea?” from the bedroom.

“Lunch?” from the kitchen.

Deep, resigned sigh from the bedroom. “If we must.”

John grinned at the graceless concession. Sherlock knew that he needed to eat (which he hadn’t been for quite some time) but that John needed regular meals (which he hadn’t been getting lately due to his concern over Sherlock), so the only way to get John to eat (a necessity, in Sherlock’s view) was for Sherlock to eat as well. As far as Sherlock was concerned, John had lost entirely too much weight lately and was no longer as comfortably soft as he once was. This must be remedied.

John fished out a skillet and a few eggs, some milk and cheese, and yelled out, “Omelets?”

“Fine. Just no bacon bits. I hate those things. Pigs themselves wouldn’t acknowledge them.”

Stroppy as usual. This was a good sign. When he moved on to imperious, arrogant, and demanding, John would know that he was well on his way to recovery.

They ate in relative silence, John observing his mate’s eating habits. Surprisingly, Sherlock dug into the food with what, for him, counted as gusto. He actually asked if there was any more and John emptied his plate onto Sherlock’s, against the other’s protestations. “No. You eat while the mood is on you,” John said. “I’ll make myself another one. I put in plenty of provisions.” He sighed and smiled in relief as Sherlock practically did a swan dive into his plate.

John waited until Sherlock came up for air, then said, “So, are you considering taking the case?”

He watched as Sherlock chewed on a forkful of food, his face thoughtful and his eyes far away. “I don’t know. I may. As long as I can work from here, I don’t see a problem with it.” He returned his gaze to John. “What do you think?”

Normally, Sherlock wouldn’t ask John for input. He would just throw on clothes, jump in a cab, and be whisked to NSY with John in tow. It was a sign that his confidence wasn’t yet completely restored, that he still relied on John for support.

John shrugged. “Your decision, Sherlock, but, remember--whatever you decide, I’m in.”

A big grin spread across Sherlock’s face. “Just like old times.”

John nodded. “Just like.”

>>>***<<<

A few weeks had gone by.

There were no words to describe it. The first day that John saw Sherlock back in a suit was one of the best days of his life. True, he was still a little underweight, so the tailored suit was a tad loose, but, all in all, he looked killer. All day long, John couldn’t wipe the stupid grin off his face.

_He’s coming back…_

Sherlock had already solved two cases in record time, both from the sanctuary of his living room, but now he felt strong enough, confident enough to journey down to NSY, as long as John accompanied him. And that, of course, was never an issue.

For the entire cab ride, John held Sherlock’s hand only when Sherlock initiated it. He wanted Sherlock to feel his strength, his independence again on his own terms. Every once in a while, Sherlock would reach over and squeeze his hand, and John would squeeze it back, then release, allowing Sherlock the option of withdrawal. Sometimes he did, but other times he didn’t. Occasionally, John reminded his friend to take a deep breath to control his anxiety but, for the most part, the cab ride went smoothly.

Lestrade was over the moon to see Sherlock back on his feet and impeccably dressed again. He had been the only one allowed to bring case files to the flat. Sherlock had refused admittance to anyone else. If it wasn’t Lestrade, then John would have to take the files at the front door. John allowed _no one_ , save Mrs. Hudson, to see Sherlock in his less-than-optimal condition, something for which Sherlock was extremely grateful.

Even Sally Donovan and Anderson were pleased to see him. Sally didn’t call him ‘freak’ once and was inordinately solicitous of him. Anderson bounded around him like a newly-adopted puppy, a big grin on his face.

It was good to be back in the game again.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

A few days had gone by. Life began to feel a bit more... _normal_ again.

 

Sunday mornings were always a great time to sleep in. No alarm clocks, no need to go to surgery, and Lestrade usually made a point of holding cases for them until Monday, if they weren’t urgent. It was deeply overcast outside, so there were no smart-arsed sunbeams interrupting their slumber. The comforter was warm and deep, the pillows inviting, whispering a seductive song into their receptive ears. Yes, it was a good day to drowse…

 

Unless you had morning wood and a screaming bladder. Then it became problematic.

 

_No-o-o-o-o,_ John moaned internally. _It’s not fair. Just go away, let me sleep…_

 

It felt so good, just lying there, all snug and toasty, but his bladder would not be denied. So, with a bleary head and a heartfelt groan, John threw back the covers and tried to exit the bed.

 

_Tried_ being the operative word.

 

He’d had this particular experience before, when he’d had a really bad nightmare about losing Sherlock and had sought him out, wanting to make sure he was really all right. _That_ had been the first night they had slept together. _That_ had been the first night they’d had sex. And _that_ was the night John had discovered that Sherlock was the hands-down, no-holds-barred champion sleep snuggler of all time.

 

John looked under the comforter, daring to hope…

 

Yes. Yes, it had finally happened. After all John’s hard work, support, and affection…

 

The Sherlocktopus was back.

 

Long pale limbs were woven around his body like a spider around a fly. A dark, curly-haired head was burrowed deeply between his shoulder blades. Slow, regular breathing indicated someone securely in the arms of Morpheus.

 

John could have jumped out of the bed screaming in joy, except for the fact that he couldn’t move. Not an inch. _I’m going to piss myself and I couldn’t be happier_ , he thought. _He’s finally coming back to me._

 

Gritting his teeth against the urgent messages being sent from his southernly regions, he gradually managed to pry loose the main cinch points confining him to bed and wriggled out before they could close again. A small, disappointed sound emerged from under the covers, a reflex rather than any conscious utterance. _Maybe, if I hurry, I can get back without him realizing I’m gone._

 

A quick trip to the loo and John was back, wriggling his way deep under the blankets and insinuating himself into Sherlock’s arms again. They were quick to re-wrap, accompanied by a contented sigh from their owner. John allowed himself to drift back into blessed sleep…

 

The next time he partially emerged from slumber, there was a strange wind-like sound in his ear, and a cool/warm sensation on his neck that was familiar, yet he couldn’t quite place it. It felt nice, though, so he groggily reasoned it must all be part of some waking dream and that he should just lie there and enjoy it. He shivered in pleasure at the sensations, which seemed to move with some strange sort of intent. At one point, he even giggled a bit when a ticklish spot was touched. There was no feeling of danger or alarm, just a sense of being comfortable and warm and loved.

 

“John,” came a breathy voice, followed by the feeling of teeth worrying delicately at his ear. “ _Jo-ohn_.”

 

“Hmmm?” he responded to the deep, seductive whisper that was obviously trying to get his attention.

 

“ _My_ John,” the voice continued, low and throaty. “My sweet, wonderful, perfect John.”

 

“Hmph. Flattery,” he mumbled, turning his head toward the voice. It was a _nice_ voice, sounding like rich, dark chocolate, the kind John particularly liked. He _loved_ that voice, could listen to it all day and, frequently, did. Hell, he’d listen to that voice read the  phone book…

 

When he finally pried his eyes open, there, looming above him, was the one thing he always wanted to see, that he treasured, that he would die for. Sherlock’s gorgeous face was looking down at him with the gentlest, sweetest smile John had ever seen, accompanied by shining, silver eyes full of adoration for him, and him alone. His hair was a riot of dark brown curls framing his face like a halo.

 

“Hey, sweetheart,” John smiled back sleepily as he basked in the warm glow of that look.

 

“Hey,” Sherlock replied before dipping his head down to deliver a soft kiss to John’s lips. It was light yet compelling, rousing John fully from sleep. He started to reach up for his lover, then laid his hand back down again, content to let Sherlock lead.

 

They stayed like that for several minutes, just touching lips—whispy, feathery kisses, little nips, barely-there caresses of tongues—while they breathed in each other’s scent, lost in the thrill of re-discovery. Sherlock’s delicate fingers deftly stroked John’s cheek, skimming the stubble on his jaw and following it down to his throat. John’s eyes drifted closed again as he relaxed into the glorious sensations he had missed all this time. He hardly dared move for fear it would break the spell of the moment.

 

When he finally opened his eyes again, he was thrilled to find his lover still there, still very real and solid to the touch, and _not_ the figment of a fitful night’s dream. “Sherlock,” he breathed, at once a name, a hope, and a prayer. He swallowed, hard, before asking, “May I…?”

 

“Yes, John. Always yes,” he murmured and their lips met again, deeper and more passionate this time. John reached up to weave his fingers into that crazy mane of ringlets and gently grabbed a fistful of it, eliciting a soft moan. Their breaths came more and more in uneven gasps as their passion intensified, fuelled by long months of self-denial and uncertainty. Sherlock rolled on top of John, pressing him into the mattress, covering every possible inch of John’s body with his. They reveled in the touch and feel of each other, hands reaching and fondling, each of them grabbing at the other without thought, only need. John allowed Sherlock to take control, to guide their lovemaking and set his own pace. Their overarching desire was for _more_ \--more kissing, more touching, _more_ …

 

Sherlock swore and broke contact, his face a study in annoyance. John’s heart constricted in fear. “Sherlock, what…?

 

“Too many clothes,” his lover growled. “Take them off. _Now_.”

 

Long, agile fingers pulled at the hem of John’s T-shirt, unceremoniously dragging it over his head and throwing it to the ground. John was having trouble untying the knot on his pajama bottoms, but Sherlock made a disgusted sound and snapped the tie in two, ignoring John’s squawk of protest. Strong hands pulled the pants down his legs and off his feet, where they disappeared under the covers.

 

Both finally, gloriously naked, Sherlock slid his body up John’s like a snake advancing on willing prey. John’s smile of genuine approval seemed to be the only signal Sherlock needed to continue his carnal intentions. Full lips surrounded a hungry, demanding mouth that kissed and licked and sucked on John’s neck, leaving marks that would have to be explained in the morning but, for now, only fueled the fire. John slid his hands down Sherlock’s back, feeling the uneven texture of the scarred skin as he continued his journey toward his lover’s succulent ass. He gripped the full, taut roundness and pressed down as he ground his burgeoning erection against Sherlock’s already-rigid one. The grateful moan that followed was more eloquent than the words of a thousand scholars, causing John’s cock to swell to its usual impressive size. Both men were now rutting against each other, murmuring encouragement, their thrusts eliciting moans and cries of unsuppressed pleasure.

 

“Sh-Sherlock,” John groaned, barely able to _think_ , let alone speak. “Sherlock!” When he received no response he grabbed a handful of lush, tangled hair and pulled back on it, forcing Sherlock to raise his head and interrupting his concentration.

 

“What the fuck do you want, John?” Sherlock growled, his breathing ragged. It was obvious he had been close.

 

John wasn’t in much better shape, but he faced his lover’s ire head on. “Sherlock,” he whispered, looking up into that heated gaze with one of his own. “I want you to fuck me.”

 

Sherlock stiffened in confusion as he tried to comprehend what his lover had just said. “Wait. _You_ …want _me_ …to…”

 

“Fuck me, yes. Incredibly hard and incredibly fast. I want you to fuck me right through the mattress and into the floor.”

 

Sherlock gulped audibly. “But I never…you always…John. I might _hurt_ you.”

 

John reached up and stroked Sherlock’s face to calm him. “You won’t, love,” he whispered. “I’ll show you how. Now, is this something you want to do? Maybe I should have asked that first.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes had a faraway look in them for a moment, then they snapped back to John. “Yes,” he said, emphatically, with a single nod. “Yes. I want to. Show me what to do.”

 

“There should be a large tube in the drawer over there. Take it out.”

 

Sherlock slid over toward the bedside table, opened the drawer and fished around in it, finally withdrawing his hand with a triumphant, “Aha!” It made John laugh to see how pleased Sherlock was that he’d found it so quickly. “Now what?”

 

“Now, squeeze some of it out into the hand you’re going to use. Don’t be stinting with it. Where you’re going, we really don’t want friction burn.”

 

Sherlock made an exaggerated show of rolling his eyes, like “Give me a break!”, before applying the lube to his fingers and working it around. “Done. Next?” His sharp eyes fairly glittered with anticipation.

 

“OK, next you’re going to insert one finger in my arsehole, _slowly._ ”

 

John opened his thighs wider and bent his knees up to provide greater access as Sherlock settled himself between them and leaned down. He gently spread lube around the violet-skinned ring of John’s anus, smiling when John emitted a quiet moan of pleasure in response. Once satisfied that there was sufficient lubrication, he pressed his long, slender middle finger against the ring until it opened to allow him entry. A sharp intake of breath accompanied his success. The ring was tight, _incredibly_ tight, and if Sherlock had not known better, he would have thought it impossible for his cock to fit through it. He pushed in half-way and was rewarded with a contraction and another moan.

 

“Oh, God, that’s right, babe, just like that. Keep pushing in as far as you can go,” John instructed breathlessly. He was trying to keep control of himself and stay coherent but Sherlock could see—and _feel_ —how difficult this was for him. John’s eyes were closed, an arm thrown across his face, and he was deliberately taking deep breaths to relax his sphincter, just as he had taught Sherlock his first time.

 

“Now, pull back and insert another finger. Again, take it slowly, let me adjust.” As Sherlock pressed the second finger in, John’s back arched and he cursed, “Ah, shit, that’s so good, babe, so good, keep going, keep going, fuck, _fuck_ …” He seemed _transported_ , losing touch with reality with each escalation of sensation. Sherlock murmured, “Stay with me, John” and that seemed to bring him back to himself, at least temporarily. “Okay, sorry, sorry, it just…feels so fucking _good_. God! I’d forgotten how _good_ that feels!” He opened his eyes and gazed down at his lover, eyes glassy and unfocused.

 

“Should I add another finger?” Sherlock asked. John nodded, his mind already slipping away. Sherlock withdrew his fingers and added a third, sliding in even more slowly and carefully than before. Before he was even halfway inserted, John arched again. “Fuck! Oh, fucking hell! Keep going babe, keep going, fuck, that’s so good, _so good_ , get in there, deeper, _deeper_ …” By now, all three fingers had been inserted to their limit, John’s asshole clenched around them. He was taking deeper breaths now, trying to bring himself back to coherence. “Now, I want you to turn your fingers so that your palm is up, bend them slightly and withdraw slowly. Feel for a lump or thickening—that’s my prostate. You know what it feels like when I touch yours…”

 

“Oh, fuck, yes,” Sherlock agreed, his own breath quickening from the excitement of discovery and the administration of pleasure to his partner. He pulled back slowly, his fingertips searching, until they found it and rubbed into it. John hips shot into the air again, higher than before. “Fucking Christ!” he yelled.

 

“Are you OK? Did I do it wrong?” Sherlock asked, fingers frozen in place, deathly afraid he’d just hurt or injured John.

 

“Holy shit! I’d forgotten what that felt like, too!” John’s eyes were wide, his expression one of shocked disbelief. He held up a hand in a dismissive gesture. “Don’t…don’t worry, babe. You didn’t do anything wrong. In fact, I think you did great. Really great. Phew!” He exhaled through pursed lips, still breathing heavily. ”So, now you know where the prostate is, right?” Sherlock sighed in relief and nodded. “You can remove your fingers now. I think I’m opened enough for you.”

 

Sherlock obeyed and slid his fingers out, provoking a sharp intake of breath from John that sounded like a cross between disappointment and relief. His body sagged a bit from the sudden release of sustained tension. “Now, I know you’ve gone down some. That’s perfectly normal. Use as much lube as you need and then some. Apply it to yourself first and get back up to a full erection, OK?” Sherlock nodded and squeezed out a generous dollop into his hand which he used to slick down his cock. After a few firm strokes he was fully erect again. “Add the rest to me,” John continued, keeping a weather eye on the proceedings.

 

Again, Sherlock obeyed without question, his anxiety held at bay by John’s gentle guidance and support. John raised his knees to allow easier access. He smiled encouragingly at his lover. “Showtime,” he quipped and Sherlock smiled and blushed simultaneously. He lined up the head of his cock with John’s entry and pushed in, slowly and gently. He could hear John’s breathing pattern change as he bore down to help Sherlock gain entry. “Push harder. I won’t break, I promise you,” he gritted as the head of Sherlock’s cock broached his sphincter. He exhaled once the ring of muscle snapped shut behind the crown.

 

“Oh, God,” Sherlock breathed, with a sort of reverence. His eyes were closed, head tilted slightly back as he took in this new sensation. “It’s so… _tight_ …so hot inside. It’s almost unbelievable. You’ve been holding out on me, you bastard,” he said, in a mock-accusatory tone. “Kept this feeling all to yourself. Shit.” He bit his lip as he slid forward until he was halfway inside. “Oh, fuck, that feels incredible. _You_ feel incredible.”

 

John watched, enraptured. God, he’d thought Sherlock was beautiful before, but this was the icing on the cake. To see him so aroused, so utterly undone, was _maddening_. It made his pulse pound in his ears and heated his blood to boiling. _How lucky am I_ , he thought, _to have this gorgeous creature_ _as mine_ _..._

 

As Sherlock buried himself entirely inside John, a moan escaped two throats at once. Mental coherence flew out the window as Sherlock practiced withdrawing and resheathing himself inside his lover. Each gentle thrust took them closer to the edge of their control, especially when Sherlock shifted his position and found John’s prostate. The result was impressive as John’s hips reared up and he impaled himself completely on Sherlock’s cock. Muscular legs wrapped around a slender waist as medically-trained hands grabbed at Sherlock’s plump bum and pulled.

 

“God, Sherlock, harder! Faster!”

 

“Are you sure…?”

 

“FUCK ME, SHERLOCK HOLMES! RIGHT FUCKING NOW!” John howled.

 

Sherlock gritted his teeth and mumbled, “Bossy prat,” as he withdrew, then rammed all the way in, producing a sloppy, splattering slap as they met. He pulled back all of his cock but the tip, then slammed back into his lover’s arse with one smooth motion, eliciting a throaty moan of pleasure from the _two_ of them.

 

“More...go deeper,” John commanded, his eyes mostly closed as he reveled in the sensation of having his lover buried deep inside of him.

 

Sherlock leaned down and whispered, “Quiet, you. _I’m_ in charge now” as he circled his hips, causing his cock to shift around inside John’s arse, eliciting pleasured grunts and groans that Sherlock had never heard from John before. He reached up and pinched a nipple; the response was more than gratifying. John unwrapped his legs and, planting his heels into the mattress, pumped his hips up and down in opposition to Sherlock’s bold thrusts, each one of them crying out in time with their moments of deepest penetration. Faster and faster they moved, their movements becoming less and less controlled, until…

 

John came first, as Sherlock’s insertions had provided steady friction to his swollen, beleagered prostate. Thick ropes of cum shot out of his huge cock, decorating his chest in abstract forms as he cried out in pleasure. The orgasmic spasms of his anus milked Sherlock’s erection as he kept shoving it into John until he, too, erupted, the muscles of his gangly form clenching and unclenching in sequence as his emissions were wrung from him and deposited deep inside his lover. They clung to each other in wordless, gutteral ecstasy until the spasms passed and their erections faded, at which point they collapsed into a nerveless heap of drowsy bliss.

 

“Sherlock?” John whispered as he ran his hands up and down Sherlock’s scarred back absently.

 

“Hmmmm?” came the less-than-coherent response.

 

“You all right, love?” Solicitously.

 

“Mm hmm.” A sleepy nod, followed by a nuzzle. “’m good. You?”

 

“Never better. May need a pillow to sit on, though.”

 

Nod and a giggle. “Yes. I remember that. You’ll get used to it.”

 

_Get used to it. Wait..._ ”Are you implying…?”

 

Muffled laughter. “What, you don’t think I should continue to exercise more control over my life? Isn’t that what the shrink said?”

 

John turned his head to look at Sherlock mock-sternly. “First, she’s not a shrink, so stop calling her that! Second, what, you think you’re going to suddenly become a top? YOU? The most bottomly bottom of bottoms?”

 

Sherlock’s eyes were laughing in response. “Not all at once, perhaps, but, maybe, we could... _switch_ sometimes? I must admit, it _is_ a rather… _empowering_ experience.” He winked. “Maybe we might try a little...light bondage, even?”

 

“I think I can live with that. Whatever’s best for _you_ , love.”

 

“For _both_ of us, John. I wouldn’t have found my way back to myself without _you_.”

 

They both smiled at each other before moving in for a kiss.

 

_He’s back. Finally. He’s come back to me._

 

“Wait, _who’s_ supposed to get tied up here, Sherlock…?”

 

“Shush, love. We’ll discuss it later.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work in progress. It has not been abandoned. Life just...intervenes sometimes.


End file.
